The Kings of the World
by Nothing Really Specific
Summary: Miraz implements plans that could decimate Narnia's denizens. Caspian leads a group of followers to infiltrate and uncover those plans before they can be implemented. A King in exile attempts to retake his throne. This piece explores war- the people in it, why it happens, and what we can do to stop it. Written to make you think. Original piece re-write.
1. Chapter 1

_**"The Kings of the World"**_

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Although some chapters will be added, this is a re-write of an original piece in fan-fiction form. It is based off a 2011-2012 draft.

This is _**historical fiction**_ and contains characters based on and inspired by real persons as well as featuring once living persons. The memory of these living persons, despite affiliation in World War II or history in general, is respected in accordance to the respect they deserve.

This piece is dedicated Lorenzo Perrone and the rest of The 25,271.

As you read, consider the following Latin phrase: Conscientia mille testes.

I shall leave you to find out what it means.

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><p><em><strong>-Chapter One-<strong>_

**16 Park Road**

**London, England**

**Midday**

On a snowy New Year's Day in 1946, a patient stood in his doctor's doorway. Ordinarily, this would not cause alarm or suspicion, for this patient was not by any means attractive. He was short, somewhat round towards the middle and was poorly dressed, sporting only a brown waistcoat with a tarnished pocket watch that was frozen in place at precisely 12:22:53 in the morning.

Fixing his dark hair and facing a door that pre-dates the century, this man of thirty-four, who at one point was an undergraduate student at the University of New York, looked up at a second story window and thought how inconsiderate it was of Miss Bradley, the doctor's secretary, to leave the bedroom light on.

_The nerve of that woman, _he thought, _you'd think that after your boss' untimely demise that you would show respect and turn off the light. I mean, not that it matters, he's dead, but I wouldn't necessarily be happy if someone left the light on in a room I was sleeping in and they knew I was sleeping there. It's just inconsiderate and rude. _

He straightened out his white shirt, which was untucked from his trousers, which were somewhat decrepit to begin with- it was as if he decided to find an old county road somewhere and roll around in dust and grime as a motorcar passed, and knocked on the door.

Footsteps that descended from a staircase sounded more like an elephant walk than a person answering a door, for they were loud, boisterous, and heated.

"Who is it?" Miss Bradley asked somewhat sternly from behind the door.

"It's Sam." The man answered, "Are you going to let me in or are you going to let me freeze to death?"

"That depends," she replied, "are you here to grieve or are you here to stab someone else in the back like you did Mister Wavell."

Sam sighed regretfully, for ever since Christmas he was given the accusation of being at fault for the death of his physician. Seeing his breath dissipate into the air like a memory leaving him, Sam placed his hand on the door again.

"Ma'am," he said, letting his American accent show, "I didn't kill him. If I did I wouldn't be here right now asking to come into his house. I would be wallowing instead."

"Until you show me your evidence, I suggest you go back where you came from." Miss Bradley said as she took a step away from the door, expecting to hear footsteps leaving the small porch and walking towards the Thames, but no such action was heard nor was it committed. Instead all the woman witnessed was the silence of one man's grief, and the silence of a dead doctor's house.

Sam stood there for a moment and even though he wanted to knock on the door again, he didn't. For he understood that, despite the claim being nonsense, the notion that he was responsible for the death of Tilden Pearson Wavell was an accepted theory, even among his friends who were witnesses. Sam sighed in defeat and nodded slowly.

"Have a blessed year ma'am." He said. Sam turned and descended a short staircase before disembarking down the sidewalk which lead to the slow, dreary moving river that honestly didn't care if an American who served in a ghastly war cried on the way to St. Paul's or not. All it knew was that it was New Year's, and that Britain and the world, was finally in a year without a war.

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><p>In St. Paul's Cathedral sat a British writer and was not the sort of person you would expect to spend New Year's in an empty church. However, there he was sitting in a pew admiring the soaring ceilings and the beautifully adorned walls which were populated with angelic choirs that consistently sung of Hallelujah as if it were the only task worth performing with breathing being the only exception, when the priest, Thomas Craig, entered the sanctuary carrying a small green Bible in hand.<p>

Dressed in priestly robes, Thomas walked over to the man in the pew with a smile on his face. "Happy New Year, sir." Thomas said, "May I sit down?"

Having wrinkles along the brow, slightly graying and receding hair, but a smile that spoke of tenderheartedness and good will towards all who spoke with him, the writer turned towards the priest and noticed that was he his senior by thirty-seven years.

"Not at all," the writer answered moving over a bit expecting Thomas to sit down next to him. Instead, the priest chose the pew directly in front and scooted down slightly so he could turn and see the writer better.

"What brings you to St. Paul's?" Thomas asked, "Don't you have family to celebrate the occasion with?"

The writer nodded and smiled but spoke rather solemnly as if he had lost the happiest person in his life. "I do," he said, "They are aware that I'm here. However if you must know the reason, Father Craig, I'm here because a dear friend of mine has recently passed and this was his church."

"I see," Thomas replied, "may I ask whom it was?"

"Tilden Wavell, sir." The writer answered. "Did you happen to know him?"

Thomas looked out into space for a moment, his old brain trying to remember the name. He looked towards the main door and closed his eyes, trying to imagine every person that usually walks through it. Finding everyone from Martin "Sully" Sullivan, the local baker who bakes wonderful croissants on Saturdays to Pauline Fryer, a tailor's wife who frequently performs his job due to his incompetence, in his mind, Thomas could not place the face nor the name of Tilden Wavell. The priest opened his eyes and turned towards the writer again, noticing that he had opened a Bible and had it turned to Psalm 10.

"Befitting passage for someone who is in grief," Thomas said. "Do you mind telling me something about this Tilden Wavell of yours?"

The writer read a verse in his head before closing the Bible and placing it back where he found it. He then looked to Thomas and thought of a memory that for him, accurately summed up all one ever needed to know about Tilden Wavell. As his mind raced to find fondness, a knock sounded on the door. It traversed through the pews and up into the dominion of the angels, who looked down on the writer and Thomas in anticipation for one of them to open the door.

The priest slowly moved for the door. The writer simply turned to watch, imagining that this old man of faith was walking on a floor towards a church door, but rather that he walked on a path flanked by tress which were adorned by beautiful white flowers. He saw birds beckoning the morning as a gentle spring wind blew leaves in their rehearsed dances, and for a moment actually wanted to go to this place with him ether so that he could experience something or dwell in his fantasies. All Thomas saw was a doorway and nothing more.

"Can I help you?" Thomas asked upon opening the large door and beholding Sam. The priest noticed two small rivers, one for each eye were running down his face and upon this, Thomas embraced him warmly.

"There, there, son," he said, letting Sam go and ushering him in from the cold and snow. "You're safe in this House of God."

Sam walked into the room seeing row upon row of empty pews and row upon row of a silent unseen procession. He turned towards the writer and nodded simply to him as Sam took a seat in the front pew. Thomas followed Sam and repeated the same welcome.

"Happy New Year sir, may I sit down?"

Sam nodded and scooted over to the left. Thomas sat down next to him and asked the same question as before.

"What brings you to St. Paul's, don't you have family to celebrate the occasion with?"

Sam shook his head but said nothing. He clasped his hands together as if in prayer and looked up towards the dome, looking akin to Caravaggio and Botticelli's work. The eyes looking elsewhere above, the body regretful of the past, the clothes shaded and dark and illuminated in light as if all sins were diminishing and vanquished forever. The angels who were above Sam smiled and looked up towards heaven, pleading to God to permit the sun to come out from the clouds and light the poor man's heart.

The writer returned to his Bible passage but intently listened to the prospect of hopeful conservation, pondering the reason as to why this man, with no coat and no means of family had come. _The reason is obvious, _the writer thought, _for he is grieving just like me. He needs God and Love now more than any point in his life. I pray that you find his heart and mend it, Lord. For the needs of his are greater than those of mine, and even though I weep, he cries out for you more._

Sam was completely content on saying nothing, on leaving the conversation one-sided and allowing the priest to sit there with him, talking to himself like he would a brick wall while he just admire the ceiling. However, Sam discovered the world again and shifted his gaze from the roof to the altar. The small Crucifix which rested on the table, was humble, just as the man who bleed on it was, looked over to Sam and whispered to him words of love.

Thomas turned towards the altar, smiled a moment, and stood. "Would you mind standing for me please?" He asked.

Sam nodded in silence and noticed that Thomas had outstretched his hands as if he wanted him to grab them. Instinctively doing so without being asked, Sam wondered if Thomas was going to do thing the stereotypical thing of priests or to do the just thing of priests and what the man was going to do about it. Thomas, who was smiling back at Sam and taking a moment to himself to admire him, was laughing as he thought of all the absurd nonsense the former academic was thinking.

"You needn't fear of me," Thomas assured, "I'm simply wanting to know if you believe you are loved."

Sam let go of Thomas' hands and allowing his own to fall to his side and flop as he were made of pasta noodles. He then resumed his seat and sighed.

"No sir," Sam said, "I do not believe I am loved."

"Ah," Thomas replied, as he too sat back down, "well I'm sorry to say it my son, but you're wrong. You are most certainly loved by someone."

"Really?" Sam continued, raising his voice as if he were arguing with a spouse over something menial. "Because my friend, my doctor, died last night and no one seems to notice or care what I'm going through."

The writer, who moved on to a passage in Matthew, and looked up from his reading. _Perhaps we are here for the same reason, good sir, would it bother you if I asked a question such as:_

"What was this friend's name?"

Sam turned to the man with the hopeful eyes and for the first noticed his face which was truly intrigued to the question he asked, as if the answer to it might provide him with some sort of ending to an unfinished chapter in the book of his life.

"His name was Tilden Wavell, sir." Sam said, "May I be so kind as to ask yours?"

The writer of forty-eight stood from his pew and once again closed his Bible and placed it back where he found it. As he walked towards Sam and Thomas, he stretched out his hand preparing for a handshake and ever so slowly a smile reached his face and by the time he stopped in front of Sam and Thomas standing between them and the altar, he looked happier than a child on Christmas morning.

"Professor Lewis," he said, "but most friends call me Jack."

Sam smiled as he shook Lewis' hand, admiring the man's mature grip. "Why do they call you Jack?"

"I haven't the slightest idea." Lewis replied as he let Sam's go. "Now that you know my name," he continued, "May I be so kind as to ask yours?"

"Sam Blake," Sam obviously replied, "how did you know him, Tilden I mean?"

"Ah, Doctor Wavell was a good friend that I met during the Great War. It was while I was living with Paddy, a dear friend, when I first saw him walk across the street. I thought he was rather peculiar, a mouse walking around the street as if it had somewhere to be, so I walked over and followed him to his destination, which I was surprised to learn was an Irish pub. Anyway, when I thought he was going to walk in he turned around, smiled, and said in an understandably rude way, 'Go stalk someone else, you psychopath!'-"

"I'm sorry," Thomas said, cutting Lewis off and shaking his head in disbelief at what his ears had just heard. "But are you implying that a mouse had somewhere to be and that it actually talked to you?"

"Well I'm not sowing and reaping a cheap lie if that's what you're implying." Lewis replied turning towards the priest and smiling a bit as the poor old man simply turned and crossed the room.

"I find it best," Lewis continued, laughing and raising his voice a little so that way it carried further, "if you look at it this way, at least I'm not in a ward!"

Sam laughed and walked back towards the door. "Sorry to leave you professor, but I best be going now."

Lewis followed somewhat slowly, giving Sam room to breathe and himself room to think, "I thought you said you hadn't a family to go home to."

"I don't." Sam replied, "But that doesn't mean I don't have things to do, Professor."

Jack nodded and noticed that Sam's right arm was stiffer than the other, almost as if he were the Tin Man who ran out of oil in his can. "Suffer an injury?" Jack asked.

"Wounded in the war," Sam said, "Tilden saved me from it."

Even though Jack was ten years older than Sam, the writer from Oxford made an effort to stride speedily past him and open the door, not personally caring if the snow ruined his hair or if the weather blew inside. When Sam reached the threshold he turned towards him and smiled.

"Thank you sir."

"On the contrary," Jack said, closing the door as he passed, "Thank you sir, for giving them hell and coming back from it."

Sam did not answer back, instead he smiled and took a right down the un-shoveled sidewalk. Jack Lewis, who did not follow him, watched as his brother's motorcar, a 1939 ivory colored Armstrong Siddeley, turned round a corner and slowly began to halt to a stop. Warren, better known as Warnie, honked the car horn to attract his brother's gaze. Jack simply held up his hand and called to Sam before he became out of earshot.

"May I ask where it is you're heading?"

Sam turned around and noticed that the car and Jack stood waiting for an answer, "Nowhere in particular," he said, "just anywhere that takes me somewhere."

"Would you consider me as an anywhere?" Jack asked, walking to Warnie's car and opening the front passenger door. "That is if you have something better to do than to partake in a cup of coffee."

Sam walked back towards the church, thinking to himself the insanity of getting into a professor's car. As he passed the vehicle he noticed Warnie who was extremely patient as Jack still stood there outside with the door open. Sam turned towards the two of them and smiled, "So, what happened next, after he told you to leave?"

Jack smiled, and entered the car, knowing full well that he had enticed Sam enough to come and talk with him about their mutual friend some more. Before he closed the door he looked up at him and motioned for him to get in the back. Sam did so, and when he was in the seat and the door was shut Jack answered his question. "I left."

Sam laughed at this, even though it wasn't particularly funny, but simply the thought of his friend telling someone like Jack to go stalk someone else for a change was humorous enough to him and he thought of his own story to tell as Warnie drove down the street and back across the Thames.

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><p><strong>Author's Note #2: <strong>The C.S Lewis story line is not the main one but it is important. I shall be basing C.S Lewis' character off the man himself. DO NOT expect 100% historical accuracy for I am not an expert, just a research enthusiast.

Also, apologies for the bad pun. It wasn't very punny.


	2. Chapter 2

**_-Chapter Two-_**

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><p>Mathias Trufflehunter woke up at six thirty and departed his little burrow at seven with a small satchel on his back. Rushing through last night's snow and sticking to the tree line, he secretly argued with himself the reason for his lateness.<p>

_You slept after two o'clock, again. Now she's going to suspect something went wrong. What's a viable excuse? Drunk? No, you never drink. Injured? More believable but there's no blood on you. Forgetful? Well, that's actually true._

As he trekked, the small satchel complained on how horrible its predicament was. For it was built for travelling on a horse, not on the back of a badger in the middle of winter in several feet of snow. It wondered, as all satchel's do perhaps, what was so important about its contents. For the satchel knew that this _thing _ it carried was not suitable for anyone- not a King, a Prince, or even a malicious vagabond. The only type of person this _thing _was suitable, valuable, or worthy for would be a mangy good for nothing wolf, and considering that the satchel looked around and saw no such beast around, it simply settled for carrying this rather stupid _thing _to wherever his master was taking it. Personally, the satchel thought, it would be better just to leave the _thing _on the side of the road than to deliver it. Saves both time and grief.

Trufflehunter, who could hear nor read the satchel's thoughts, climbed over the snow, for he practically sunk to the bottom of it, and trekked from there on a height that would normally be three and a half feet above the ground. He passed by the houses that the birds had built so well, seeing that blue jays and robins had kindly offered to rent a space for ferrets who had nowhere to go and he wondered where the brook was that ran so beautifully and still at this time of year. For it froze over only rarely and even in thick snow the water could be heard as if spring were whispering it's longing to return. As he walked to his destination, which was his parents' house, Trufflehunter thought about all the possibilities for the inevitable conversation.

When he turned at a place which would usually be a bend in the brook and a boulder that had no business being there, Trufflehunter ascended a small slope and discovered that the stone pathway that lead to his parents' humble abode was disinterred from the heaping snow in a way that was much more enjoyable and interesting than a simple straight path. For the way to get to the door now consisted of a gentle slide of snow with the pathway remaining the same save for the flanks of snow that went over the badger's head.

Creeping up to it, not necessarily knowing what to expect, he said nothing and listened to a world glossed over in an artist's winter. The trees were sleeping, their voices silent as their boroughs stood weighed down and their dreams frozen in their heads like the bark on their bodies or the roots at their feet. The birds sang no songs, for the time for singing is reserved for spring. All of nature reverted back to déjà vu, while all Mathias thought of was: _it's simply winter_.

The Badger made his way down to the door and surprised to have it opened after the first knock and was even more surprised to see a dear friend standing in the doorway.

Beaming at him as if he had been away for twenty- years, Reepicheep looked up and quickly stepped to one side to let the Badger through.

"I was beginning to wonder when you would come." The Mouse said smiling a bit, closing the door once Trufflehunter was in and out of the way. "Conveniently enough, I was just about to leave to fetch you."

Trufflehunter crossed the room to the table, which was a large, custom made cedar piece built for thirteen. Marley, his father, who sat at the head of the table with a dinner plate and glass in front of him, looked up at the only son he did not disown and the son he inherited with a smile. "So the prodigal sons return."

"How many times must I tell you," Reepicheep said as he resumed his place at the table next to Naomi, Trufflehunter's wife. "I am not your son, merely a family friend who has a room in your house."

"Oh come now," Naomi replied, coming back from her thoughts of which to eat first, the salmon or the spinach. "You're as much a brother to Mathias as you are to me."

"Yes, but brothers don't necessarily turn up missing for seven weeks, come back a day and leave again." Reepicheep stated, turning to the party of three confused as to why they were misunderstanding something incredibly simple. "It just isn't right to call me brother or son to you when I'm rarely ever here."

Mathias rolled his eyes as he prepared himself for supper, looking over the meal and admiring the care the chef, whomever it was, took to prepare it and make his plate orderly and presentable. "Does that make me not my father's son then?" Mathias asked. "I live no less than half a mile away and rarely ever come here either but you don't see him behaving as if he isn't loved anywhere. Come, let us bless the food and eat before it turns cold."

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><p>The meal was divine- the salmon was cooked a bit too long and the spinach perhaps a bit dry but it was all in all a grand supper that filled their stomachs. Mathias stoked a fire in the fireplace, and Reepicheep took care of the cleanup, while Marley and Naomi sat quietly in the two comfortable green chairs that overlooked the bookshelf engraved so beautifully into the wall.<p>

Mathias crouched down on the rug that was probably only still there because it was original to the place. A shadow of its former self, the rug, much like the satchel which sat next to the fireplace, thought its current predicament rather strange. That a group of badgers now took ownership of it for instance, was perhaps the biggest reality check the rug has received in years. It saw the likes of dwarfs, satyrs, imps, sprites, and other creatures of grand power and authority- never once was it master to creatures considered vermin by some and harmless to most. The satchel meanwhile, wanted so much to fidget around and get that loathsome _thing _out, and then to heave itself straight into a warm soak, for to say that the satchel was a germaphobe would not necessarily be out of the question.

"Well," Reepicheep said upon re-entering the room and taking a seat back at the table. "All the dishes have been cleaned, dried, put away, and I've also taken the liberty of checking on the Hallam- not to worry, he's sound asleep."

Naomi turned towards the rodent and smiled both in shock and gratitude, for she knew her child well and understood that Hallam, like most infants, often liked to wake up at inconvenient times. Being a new mother, she often wondered what it was she was doing wrong in terms of getting him back to sleep- trying everything from lullabies to warm milk with little to no success.

"Why, thank you Reep," she said, "I am generally impressed, for no one, not even Mathias can get Hallam to bed, may I ask how you managed to do it?"

"Unfortunately there is no methodology to parenting," Reepicheep answered, "for if there were then we would all be the same and life would be horrendously dull. However, I've always find it helpful to sing a lullaby."

"I've tried that," Naomi replied, leaning in a bit extremely intrigued in the conversation as her husband stood from his pyro management and sat on an ottoman. "Nothing seems to work, isn't that right, Mathias?"

Mathias yawned and nodded, stretching his arms via reaching behind him as far as he could go. "Putting that boy to sleep is like wrestling a bear to the ground with your bear hands. It's futile. I doubt it will last. He usually begins to cry after an hour or so and it's right back to square one again."

Reepicheep looked the badgers over and noticed how exhausted and aged they were, despite the fact that he was younger than Mathias by a year. _Both of them appear to be seventeen years older than their true age, it was as if birthing and siring a child has become the very thing that will kill them. That, or they're simply too pessimistic and see no end to sleepless nights of little nightmares and endless days of living them out. Should I tell them that it's just a phase in a series of phases or wait for them to find that out for themselves? To think, if they're stressed out about something that they themselves did not actually do, imagine how they'll feel when I tell them the news I've brought with me._

"Which lullaby do you choose?" Reepicheep asked.

"_Sir Lionel_." Mathias answered.

"Well no wonder the poor fellow can't get any sleep! You're singing him a song about killing a boar that will eat him alive!" Reepicheep said standing up from his chair and shaking his head at the pathetic choice of a song and even worse how calm his friend was about it. "Have you considered_ Castle Dromore _in its original tongue?"

"Oh not that dreary thing!" Naomi cried with a disdainful eye roll, "My mother used to pride herself on her ability to sing that one and she did so every night for seven years. It worked."

"If it worked," he said, turning towards her, "then why despise it?"

Naomi laughed, "It's my mother we're talking about Reep."

"I've never had the pleasure," The Mouse replied as he walked back to his chair to pull it closer to everyone so that he wouldn't feel so alone or left out. "Perhaps when spring comes I shall get a chance."

"Oh I'm afraid you won't be able to Reepicheep," The female Badger said, "the poor thing is thankfully dead."

_Well that's rather morbid. _Reepicheep thought, _Still, best get on with it. _The Mouse shifted himself in his chair and turned towards Marley who was asleep in his chair with his mouth hanging open, snoring louder than a cave bear. Reepicheep laughed a little and stood up to stretch.

"Well," he said with a slight yawn, "I believe I shall go to bed myself. I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow."

"What happens tomorrow?" Mathias asked.

Reepicheep said nothing and yawned again, "Personal business, Truff, that and I need to tell you all something that may be a bit of a shock."

"Can't you tell us now?" Naomi said, "I'm not good with suspense."

"Afraid it requires Mister Marley's attention," Reepicheep answered. "Now," he said turning to them both, "sleep well, I shall see you in the morning."

"Wait just a moment," Trufflehunter said, "you said you sung that lullaby in its original language?"

Reepicheep nodded, "Yes, I did."

"Are you telling me that you are versed in Narnian?" Mathias asked, impressed and scared at the thought that his friend spoke a language that was as dead as the autumn leaves that populated the ground.

"I know Milandish too, but those are stories for the morning." Reepicheep said as he waved a goodnight and crossed the room, quietly entered the hallway, and entered the guest bedroom.

It was small with not much in it, but it was enough for him. A bed on the far left, a bookshelf to the far left a nightstand placed awkwardly in the middle and a rug that covered the floor. There was no window. As he made his way into that particular bed for the third time in a row, he felt the need to say goodnight to his family who was not even in the room or in the world anymore.

Despite having three friends in the living room who treated him like family, Reepicheep felt utterly alone. To combat this, he hummed to himself the sweet song that he mentioned earlier and as he lay on his pillow, The Mouse thought of periwinkles and this made him smile, for he hadn't thought of periwinkles since his childhood and was a lifetime and an age ago.

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><p>The night drew on. Eventually the Badger Hallow grew silent as the bark on the trees and once again everything was still. Almost…<p>

While the world became oblivious to the goings on of itself, soft padded footsteps approached the Hallow followed by a wet sniffing nose and a curious tail. The nose inhaled and realized three things: first, there were badgers and a mouse nearby, so there was dinner, second, there was the very thing the nose had been searching for all its life in a small brown satchel. The mouth that resided underneath the nose smiled and spoke.

"So, you were the one who took it? Didn't really expect that one."

_Wait a moment, _the brain thought, _you know this badger. Yes, dear Mathias! Oh remember the games you played when you were pups? How joyous those times were and how wonderful it would be to see him again._

The paws stretched themselves out and the body submitted itself to the snow as the head, which that of which was a wolf, decided to get some rest just in front of the slow slide outside the door. He smiled and laughed to himself as he dreamt the look of his master's face upon the return of a simple satchel and its single content.

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><p>To listen to <strong>"The<strong>** Castle Dromore"**, there is a video on YouTube with the lyrics to sung by The Clancy Brothers.

The lyrics to **"Sir Lionel" **can be found here: www. contemplator child /lionel .html (no audio could be found)


	3. Chapter 3

**_-Chapter Three-_**

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> There is a short conversation about homosexuality, it should not necessarily pull anyone's strings for I have tried to make it as un-biased and open-minded as humanly possible. If offense is taken, it is not my intention. Remember that character views do not necessarily reflect personal views- it's just a piece of fiction.

I included this relatively short conversation to add something to the characters and because it was a first for me in terms of talking about the subject.

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><p><em>The sun peered through the trees, which stretched out their branches yearning for the warmth, comfort, and safety that was spring. A bird fluffed her wings and realizing the temperature simply yawned, resisting her impulse to sing her beautiful song. Her mate, who was busy waking up, turned over to his children and caressed them with his wing.<em>

_"Children," he said sweetly, as all robins do, "time to wake up. It's morning."_

_"Oh father," a chick replied, so eager to slip into the realm of his dreams again, "must we? It's cold out and I wish to sleep for another hour."_

_"Ah yes," said the father, "but if you sleep for an hour then you'll request another and another and by then it shall be time to sleep again. Now get up and we'll see about some breakfast…."_

Hallam cried again. It was the third time in thirty minutes and Reepicheep was alone tending to him. Mathias had gone out to, very fittingly find breakfast, and Naomi had travelled with him. As for Marley he was too tired to move and simply resorted to preparing a fire and sweeping the floor with a makeshift broom.

Reepicheep, who had a rather large book of signature fairytales in his paws entitled, _"Narnian Tales, Myths, and Legends"_ by Dyson Gracie, looked down at the festering cub who was sitting next to him, smiled at the thought that this Badger, even at ten months old was larger than he was and it was probably the reason for the tears. Nevertheless, the Mouse set the heavy book aside, literally dropping it on the floor, admittedly cringing a bit at the thud of the thing, and turned towards Hallam as if he were a physician preforming a routine check-up.

"Now, what seems to be the trouble?" Reepicheep asked, knowing full well that Hallam could not understand him fully to begin with. Hallam simply cried, yearning something he knew he could not have at the moment.

"I bet you miss your mother," Reepicheep continued.

"Of course he does!" Marley cried, who was near the table, sweeping underneath it. "He's a milk drinker just like his father was." He huffed, ashamed and disgusted at the idea of femininity in a masculine mammal. Marley moved himself and his broom towards the pile of dust and dirt in the center of the room, making careful not to muck it up with his tail which was double checking his route, moving side to side, removing evidence of footsteps.

"You know for a while there, I thought Mathias was homosexual." Marley said.

Reepicheep shook his head, laughing at the thought but was not necessarily surprised by it. "If I were to tell you that I have thought the same about him would you believe me?"

"Yes, actually." Marley replied with a small chuckle as he walked over to the nearest closet to fetch the makeshift dustpan.

"Have you ever considered it?" Marley asked, "Homosexuality, I mean?"

"No," Reepicheep replied, "I do not find it practical for the country. It seems rather…unorthodox, to say the least. However, just because things are unorthodox does not mean they are necessarily inherently impractical- if that answers your question."

"It does," Marley said, "I'm glad you have an opinion on matters, it gives us elders something to believe in and hope for."

"Well, I'm glad to assure you then." Reepicheep said, who smiled and thought for a moment, the prospect of homosexuality, with whom it was obvious, but he realized rather quickly that the relationship would fly south quicker than a bird's migration. The reason would be simple, they would literally kill each other. For Reepicheep knew that Mathias Trufflehunter was the most orderly person in the entire place and understood that order could only be taken so long. The Mouse was more of an ordered chaos individual, with his house being not so tidy and his papers being strewn about as if he were taking up various papier-mâché projects. In a matter of days, they would be screaming and raging at each other like two disagreeing harlots on the side of a river bank. One claiming their business was more successful and just than the other and so on.

Reepicheep turned towards Hallam, who was still crying but a little less now, and gently and quietly moved around, climbing to where the small Badger's head was, and stroked the back and top of his head, moving his paw in small massaging circles. After a few moments, Hallam relaxed his shoulders and hushed.

"My, my," Marely said rather softly so as to not wake the sleeping cub up as he swept the dust and dirt into the dustpan which he placed on the floor, "you seem to have talent for this. Mind teaching Mathias that trick?"

The Mouse nodded and jumped from the chair. "After twenty minutes," Reepicheep said as he crossed the room to the kitchen table, in the back of his head wondering when Mathias and Naomi would return from their morning escapades. "Would you be so kind as to put our little dreamer in bed?"

Marley walked over to the garbage can, dustpan in hand, placing the entire thing, dust, dirt, and pan, in the garbage. "You know," he said, thinking to himself that he could always use a dustpan anyway, "That you'd make an exceptional godfather."

"As much as I would love to sire him when the sires are gone, I'm afraid that humble opportunity cannot be bestowed to someone like me." Reepicheep replied, sitting down at the place he sat last night, entering his mind and imagining him actually taking one of the many offers he received to be godfather, which in total were thirty-six, all of them by close friends, and all of those close friends, including the godson or goddaughter in question, inexpiably died from unrelated causes. One instance involved a drowning, another a fever that plagued the house.

"Let us just say for your own safety," Reepicheep continued, "that I am extremely unlucky and I fear my curse shall follow you if I even remotely think about accepting it. So no, I shan't be the boy's godfather, but, I can be a just friend and mentor of whatever it is he wishes to be astute in."

Marley nodded and noticed that Reepicheep was beginning to slouch- his whiskers moved down to the floor, his eyes became fixated on the rug, which no longer had the satchel for companionship, and his tail, of which he prided so much of, wallowed in the dirt. The Elder Badger slowly moved toward the table and sat down next to him.

"What happened to them was not your fault Reepicheep," Marley said, "they died because death sometimes happens. Granted, inconveniently at times, but that's part of life. If life were convenient then we would die with nothing accomplished and nothing gained."

Reepicheep turned towards Hallam and for a moment, pictured him dead and enjoying the sight of it. He saw himself smothering the poor cub with a pillow on which he sat on as he carved the body like a Christmas turkey, all the while laughing, shouting that dreadful Sir Lionel song as if he were drunk on sadism and stupidity. The Mouse shook his head and closed his eyes, reliving himself from the daydream and looked at Hallam again, who was sound asleep, curled up in the chair as if the quarrels of the world did not necessarily matter.

"Even words of truth," Reepicheep said to Marley, who was still with him, "cannot assure me."

The Mouse stood up, turned to Marley, and sighed heavily, "I believe I have overstayed my welcome. I shall pack, I shall leave, and I do believe that I shall never return here. Give them my love and blessing."

He turned to bolt out but Marley grabbed his tail, and fully knowing that Reepicheep hated it, personally could not care less.

"Reepicheep Hartwin Daren," Marely said pulling the Mouse back via the tail. "If you're leaving, you must do two things for me."

Reepicheep, who simply went along with the humiliation, quickly cursed and quickly forgave Marley for his arrogance of tail sensitivity. "Are those things quick and easy or long and difficult?"

"Quick and easy." Marley replied as he let go of the Mouse's tail and turned him around to face him. "You must promise to come back here and you must promise to live here until you die."

"Those requests are-"

"Necessary and ordered." Marley quipped, cutting Reepicheep off before he could finish. "I know what happened dear boy, and I know that we are all you have left."

Reepicheep's heart swelled- there was not an act more gracious and welcoming than being allowed to stay in another's home, but it was another thing entirely to be ordered to live there. His head understood what that request meant- a permanent place to retreat to, a humble roof to sleep under, and the justification of several wonderful, happy notions that were far from foolish and naïve.

He wanted so much to embrace this kindhearted adopted uncle of his, but instead, Reepicheep settled for a smile and a respectful nod.

"They would be so proud of you Reepicheep." Marley said, smiling and embracing the Mouse anyway.

"Your father was a good man, and your brothers were great too," The Badger continued, "Do them right and seek out your own greatness."

Reepicheep did not resist the impulse to embrace back, nor did he resist the urge to weep. "Why does grief pain the heart so?" He said beneath his tears, "Why can't it simply kill the heart instead?"

"Grief is an agent of love, Reepicheep." Marley replied, letting the Mouse go and walking over to Hallam and gently picking him up. "You of all people should know that."

The Elder Badger carried his grandson into his room and tucked him back in bed.


End file.
